The Black Butterfly
by Never.A.Morning.Person
Summary: He had always hated crows.
1. Dream

**A/N: **A first attempt at fanfiction. I took liberties with this, and I hope you don't mind. Let me explain a little, because my brain is a cluttered maze. So, let's say Sebastian did take Ciel's soul. Let's say Ciel reincarnated and forgot everything. And well, let's say that Sebastian just wasn't fine with that.

**Disclaimer: **I (obviously) do not own Kuroshitsuji or any of its characters. If I did, it would be yaoi by now. ;) Just kidding. But seriously.

* * *

**THE BLACK BUTTERFLY**

by Never A Morning Person

_**Dream.**_

_It feels so very fragile that you are afraid that if you don't step too lightly the whole thing will shatter under your toes and you will end up falling into endless darkness. But at the same time, because dreams are nothing but contrapositions, this one holds such a reassuring solidity that you are finally convinced that you can move, so you do. You carefully place one foot in front of the other, fearful as you take the first steps, more confident once you see that nothing happens, there is no shattering, no infinite plummeting. Just sand, there is sand. _

_The dream has taken you to an island of sorts, the sand is white and warm, and you can almost see sparkling blue where all the white ends. "This is odd," you think out loud because there is no-one here to hear you talking to yourself. You have never been to an island before, never felt warm sand tickle your skin, and England's shores are nothing like this. Sharp green rocks and gray waters is what they are. Beautiful, but nothing, nothing like this. _

_The idyllic nature of this place stirs something dark inside you, the notion that you don't belong in such a place almost nauseating. This is unbecoming your nature; it's too heavenly for the prickly thorns that surround you, the heavy shadows that make you what you are. You get the sudden feeling that someone wants to make up for something by bringing you here._

_You start running suddenly to chase these thoughts away because they are just too complex and confusing for you right now, and you've reached the big blue sooner than you expected –sooner than possible, but you don't ponder on it too much. You're in a dream, you can't afford to think. The feeling of __**Idon'tbelong**__ now nothing but a distant, barely-there humming at the back of your brain._

_There's a pier right in front of you when you stop running, as if waiting for you to step on it (this is a dream, after all), so you do. The thing doesn't screech or protest against your weight, it's welcoming and warm, like the rest of the dream. You move forward calmly, taking your time as a soft breeze makes your hair sway. Once your reach the end of the pier, you decide to sit down on the wood and dip your feet in the water. It seems like the right thing to do._

_You do not know how long you spend with your feet in the turquoise waters, motionless and serene. Time is nothing but a measure and it holds no importance here. On some level you have now accepted this, this entire parallel universe that stretches out around you. Even if someone __**is**__ trying to atone for something, you find yourself accepting the gift. You'd be ungrateful not to._

_The moment you make that thought, something changes in the blue sky you are gazing upon. A black dot appears, far in the distance. At first, you think your eyes are playing tricks on you and blink a couple of times to clear your vision. But the tiny dot persists. _

_It grows larger._

_And larger._

_At some point you realize that it isn't a tiny dot at all. It's many tiny dots approaching, a flock of black dots flying towards you._

_You cock your head to the side, thinking that the black creatures approaching hold no place in this white world, much like you. You vaguely feel sorry for them, and for yourself. You stare at them as they come closer and closer, merely observing them from a distance, your head completely blank._

_And then a question arises, __**what are they?**_

_And the answer comes, almost instantly-__**crows**__. They are crows._

_And then panic comes, like new, boiling blood in your veins, like a blow to the gut._

"_Crows!" you think in shrieks, "Crows!" and your hands tremble on your knees. You want to move –try to move, but your body won't obey because this is a dream and you have no control over it. _

"_Let me go let me go let me go!" you scream at no-one and nothing, and of course, there is no response, no result to your helpless yelling. The invisible fingers that are keeping you still won't let go. You are powerless, a toy, a puppet._

_The dream is merciful enough to let you close your eyes, and now you're thankfully blind, trapped and waiting to be lost in a sea of deathbirds._

_

* * *

_

_Crows._

_You don't know why, but you've always hated them._

_Crows._

_No, it's not so much hate as it is fear, bewilderment._

_**Anticipation.**_

_Crows-your heart beats faster._

_Crows._

_Crows are red eyes and black feathers, crows are hoarse croaks and sly smiles._

_Crows are death and the devil, they are corpses and cemeteries, they are black nails and low voices, sneering replies._

_Crows are bad luck, crows are __**yesmylord**__ and obedient bows, arrogance and __**idonotlie**__, crows are someone, something, sometime, but you just can't place it, can't remember it, can only feel it __**–could always feel it- **__coiled at the pit of your stomach._

_

* * *

_

_You open your eyes._

_

* * *

_

_What you see is a small, fluttering thing._

_What you see is a black butterfly._

_Without thought, you extend your arm and trap it between your fingers, a cage of flesh and bone. The movement of its wings is light kisses on your skin and forgetting everything for a moment –crows, feathers, death- you smile. The creature's wings have beautiful crimson eyespots._

_You remember beautiful crimson eyes._

_And then they're suddenly here, the dark things, enveloping you in a veil of blackness. But you are no longer trembling because even though it's absurd –it __**should**__ be crows and you __**know**__ it- this is __**not**__ crows, __**not**__ death, just hundreds, millions of tiny black butterflies kissing your skin wherever they can reach, and you shouldn't be afraid because-_

–_**I do not wish to scare you**__._

_Because this dream is a form of atonement._

_And when your skin can no longer sense the shuddering caress of paper thin wings, the butterflies and the darkness have disappeared and fear is nothing but a word, you know without having to see._

_He's finally here._

_

* * *

_

_He is here, but not quite. _

_It is not so much a presence as it is an omnipresence, you don't know where he is exactly, if he's sitting beside you on the pier, if he's hovering over you like a statue of darkness, if he's kneeling at your feet. You can see him, but you can't. He's both near and far, here and there, everywhere and nowhere at the same time._

_You can feel it in your gut –your heart perhaps?- all this, this world of blinding white and black butterflies, is his doing. And you don't know why, but right now, you really want to make him speak._

"_Who are you?"_

_He smiles. No answer. He just…smiles. It makes your chest ache._

"_Answer me, who are you?"_

_Your voice adopts an unusual tone. You don't think you've heard yourself speak like that before. It echoes like authority, like control, power, pride. This is the voice of someone who thinks himself above others. The voice of a boy with a ring of blue diamond and a heart of crimson revenge._

_Your thoughts are a tangled web, and you're caught in it, and he's the spider and he opens his mouth to speak and you hold your breath without realizing it._

"_You know who I am, Ciel."_

_Your name._

_Your eyes widen a fraction. He's right. You know who he is. Not in the concrete sense of knowing, of firm certainty, but in something like remembering past lives, like trying to make out figures through thick fog and blurry water._

_Ciel. Your name. Something doesn't feel right._

"_Yes," you mutter "I think so." He nods, wherever he is –kneeling, standing, sitting, here there, everywhere. You want to ask him why everything is so terribly absurd, did he bring you here to mess with your head? You refrain out of pure pride. He shouldn't see you weak, at loss. He must not. Even when you were nothing but a child without a family, too much rage and too much power, he never saw -_

"_What is the matter?"_

_Never saw what? You can't remember, his words broke your train of thought and now it's lost. You shoot him an annoyed glance. He shouldn't interrupt you._

"_Why am I here?" you ask coolly, as you think you should._

"_Do you not like it here?" he counters softly tilting his head to the side, and using a tone that is tenderly condescending and a little devious. His eyes are twin pools of fiery red, his hair is ravens' wings and his lips a gentle teasing curve. You like him more when he's like this, a gentle smirk playing at his lips. His smile before, it was unsettling. It was innocently glad, it was sincere, you almost believed in it. _

_You want to touch him._

"_Answer my question," you order, and your fingers burn. You want to fit them at the dip of his collarbone, his cheekbones, the line of his smirking lips. It is a strange desire. It's the need to verify he's really here; you want to see if it's still the same._

"_I wanted to see you," he replies. "And you wanted to see me." He sounds self-satisfied. How dare he._

"_You do not know __**what **__I want," you cut him off. "How could I want to see you when I know neither what you are nor where you come from, when I don't know what you w -"_

"_You know the answer to all those questions, Ciel."_

_Again, your name. It's not right. How can your own name feel wrong at someone's lips? _

_You know the answer, he said. Why does it feel like the truth? You do, you __**do**__ know, you just need some help remembering, putting the puzzle pieces together. Someone to guide your hand. But you wouldn't ask him to. You wouldn't ask for help._

"_Why butterflies?" you ask next, disregarding his previous comment, trying to look unaffected, calm. "You are not butterflies." Of that you are certain._

"_Crows scare you, Ciel."_

"_Stop calling me Ciel!" you burst out suddenly, impulsively, because it's driving you insane. Your lip trembles in frustration and the bastard grins, grins sweetly and mockingly and says:_

"_It is your name, is it not?"_

_He talks to you like you're a child, a spoilt, beloved one._

"_You know what I mean, Sebastian."_

_**Sebastian.**_

"_Ah."_

_**Sebastian.**_

_His little exclamation, almost a sigh of relief. It rings like __**welcome home**__ to your ears, and you strangely feel like crying. __**Sebastian**__. Cakes and silverware, candles and white gloves, contracts and damned souls. __**Sebastian. **__How could you forget?_

"_Yes. Yes, my Lord."_

_It's Sebastian._

_

* * *

_

"_Why are you here, Sebastian?" You use his name, overuse it, in excess, greedily. Sebastian. Sebastian. Sebastian. It's like you're trying to make up for lost time, for all the things you didn't and still don't remember. At least, you remember him. Who he is. He's Sebastian._

_You don't like it when he doesn't answer you._

"_Sebastian."_

"_I told you, Young Master. I'm here because-"_

"_Because you wanted to see me." You finish the sentence with a sneer and turns his face towards you. There's surprise in his eyes and you think you like it. You think it's delicious._

"_You don't believe me?"_

"_I…" You hesitate. Is there a reason why you shouldn't? __**I do not lie, like humans do. **__He said that, once. Did he ever break that promise? Did he ever harm you? You don't remember. Is there even a point anymore? Does it matter? Did it __**ever**__ matter?_

"_Do you trust me, my Lord?"_

_You find yourself smiling absently and you do not care to stop it. You're used to your body and mind doing strange things by now. You don't look at him as you reply._

"_I shouldn't, should I?"_

"_But you do."_

_And even though he will think himself victorious, and it will make you appear like a weak child, even though you are human and you can lie, you choose not to.._

"_Yes," you whisper under your breath, and his smile is satisfied and annoying, but that's alright –that's the way it should be- you've missed it._

_

* * *

_

_There are eyes on you. Exploring. Tracing. Mapping you out so intensely that it feels almost like a physical touch. It irks you a little, it's strange. You turn to face him, raise an eyebrow inquisitively. Something is different in the way he's staring at you. Something has shifted in his gaze._

"_You've grown, Young Master."_

"_I'm only sixteen years old."_

"_You were not sixteen when I saw you last."_

_Oh._

_The demon's voice is somewhat cold. He looks away, looks into the sky or at the sea, doesn't look at you. You feel like you should apologize for your sixteen years. _

"_But that was a long time ago," he adds, as if you didn't know that. Such a long time ago, a lifetime ago, and all you can remember is fragments, shadows, ghosts. _

_You want to ask how old you were when he last saw you, what did you look like, did you have the same amethyst eyes and small hands, was your voice the same, was your hair as long and as wavy. You want to ask __**when**__ and __**how **__and __**why**__. You want him to fill all the gaps in your memory, all the lost shards of another life. You hate not being able to remember._

_Something dawns on you. It makes your heart skip a beat._

"_Sebastian."_

"_Yes, my Lord?"_

"_Will I remember this when I wake up?"_

_He must have sensed the tinge of panic in your voice, because he finally turns and looks at you. His eyes are blood-red, but soft, like the black butterfly's wings. You know you won't like the answer._

"_Some of it, yes."_

"_What will I remember?"_

"_The sea and the sand. The wind. Perhaps the butterflies. Nothing too unpleasant."_

_Your eyes widen, your mouth is dry. You glance at him, and find him almost smirking, cruel and gleeful. You want to slap him across the face but your hands are shaking too much._

"_Is there anything else you'd want to remember, Young Master?" _

"_Not really, no. No." _

_**You. You. Your name. The curve of your wicked grin, your crow-black hair, your devilish eyes, your face, your voice. You. I want to remember you, my name on your lips, you, crows and darkness and fear, I want to remember you, everything unpleasant, however unpleasant, everything that hurts, bites and stings, I want to remember you.**_

"_I don't want to remember anything else."_

_He can see through it. Of course he can. You bite your lip, knowing somehow that this desperate urge to latch onto him and never let him go, this pathetic need to cry in frustration because you can't handle forgetting again, the tremble of your fingers, the lump in your throat, they are all betraying the fact that you are not quite the person he remembers. The person you used to be –you can sense him at the back of your brain- he wouldn't try to hold on, he'd be too proud to shiver or cry, he'd think this panic a degrading thing, he'd kill and bury it. _

_You are not him._

_Two beads of warmth leak from your eyes. Tears. You make no attempt to dry them. They run down the sides of your face, and Sebastian sees them. He stares at them as if they're an alien, supernatural thing. As if they are wrong._

"_We will meet in the human world, Ciel." He says apologetically, and you hate him for it._

"_**I told you not to call me Ciel**__!" you cry out, feeling offended and ridiculed and small._

_The smile he gives you could even be called melancholic. It makes everything worse._

"_You're not Young Master anymore, Ciel," he mutters quietly._

_

* * *

_

_**What.**_

_His words make your entire world erupt._

_**How dare he. **__This is the worst thing, the worst thing he could have ever said. __**Not Young Master anymore.**__ Why? Not anymore-why? Because you're sixteen? Because you don't remember, because you cry? Because you're weak? Do you seem weak to him?_

_Or rather…_

_Are __**you**__ the one that's weak? The one that manufactured an entire dreamworld just to find a Young Master that died years, centuries ago? The one that created a white hallucination of seas and sand in order to be absolved of a sin that's lost and forgotten? The one that traded crows for butterflies to keep from scaring you away? Are __**you**__ the one hunting after a shadow? Are __**you**__ the one that's latching on, that can't let go?_

_**How dare he.**_

_Your right eye burns fiercely and when you turn to look at him, he nearly flinches._

"_**I will always be your Young Master.**__"_

_It's an order._

_It sounds like a curse._

_This is what he wanted. __It makes him smile._

"_**Yes, My Lord**__."_

_This is what you want. _

_It makes you smile as well._

_

* * *

_

_He leans forward and kisses you. _

_Because he's everywhere, you're not sure where his lips land, if it's the top of your head, the back of your hand, the center of your chest. You feel him on your lips and the curve of your neck, your fingertips, your eyelids. You feel him everywhere._

_You grip onto him, but you're not entirely sure what you're holding onto either, if it's his shoulders or his hair, the soft fabric of his shirt, his forearms, his wrists, or maybe it's everything, maybe you're simply holding onto __**him**__, or onto the dream itself, because he is the dream and you know it's almost over._

_But that's fine, because even if you forget, you will always remember._

_Even if you don't meet again in this life, he will always haunt you._

_You'll always be his Young Master, and he will always be your loyal guard dog._

_And it's as much a blessing as it is a curse._

_**FIN **_

_**(…or TBC?)**_

_**

* * *

**_

**A/N: **So, people? What do you think? I hope this wasn't too confusing.

As you can see, I'm not sure whether this will be continued or not. Time will tell. :)

Oh, one last thing.

This story was written for two of my favorite people, two of the coolest, most amazing nutcases in the universe. Duchess and Sister, this is for you. A small birthday present. Happy Birthday to the Royal Twins from Kath, with loads of sparklesparkle, inspiration, kafriles and, um, butterflies? Keep up the awesomeness, loves.


	2. Nightmare

**Disclaimer: **I do not own Kuroshitsuji nor any of its characters.

* * *

**THE BLACK BUTTERFLY**

By Never A Morning Person.

**Nightmare.**

**May.**

It's fucking May and you'd rather be anywhere but here. The office is small and claustrophobic despite the windows and the fingerpaintings on the walls. They scare the shit out of you, those fingerpaintings. You don't know why but most kids have picked red –maybe it was the only color available?-, so when you focus on the therapist, the wall behind her becomes the scene of some horrendous crime, blood splashed all over it.

Thoughts like this convince you that you deserve your spot in the nuthouse, and make you wonder why they were so late in checking you in.

May in England isn't much, it's not like the world suddenly blooms and erupts in scent and color. To you at least, everything is pretty much the same. It still rains, the mornings are still gray, your skin always feels sticky at night. The only difference is the sun, there is more sun. It's more _persistent_, one could say, sunlight in May, it sticks around longer than fall or winter, like it's trying to make a statement, put up a fight against all the soft grays and the deep blues.

You like the sun. You like the way sunlight feels on your skin –warm, just _warm_. You like its deep orange color in the evenings and dull white at dawn. You like how it reflects in rain puddles, how it plays through leaves and clouds. You even like the small sting bright sunlight brings to eyes accustomed to the darkness.

You stretch your arm and move your fingers drowsily. You like the shadows they create on the red carpet. They make your hand look monstrous and powerful.

"Ciel."

You jump up and remember her existence. There's a small, amused smile playing on her lips.

"Right. Sorry." You spaced out again. It happens all the time lately- you're too tired to remain focused for long. "What were you thinking about?" she asks quietly, putting on her glasses. She looks much older with them on and it's better that way. Without them she's just a kid in small, blood-splattered office with a Dr. stapled to her name.

The glasses make her look professional. Maybe this way she can convince you she can help. She hasn't done much so far.

"Just…ramblings. In my brain. Nothing really."

She nods. "What about?"

"School," you lie, because what were you supposed to say, _blood and May and sunlight and monsters?_

"So, about those dreams of yours?"

She takes a pen in her hand, and you think _oh shit_, she's going to start taking notes again. You've only been here twice, and you've decided you hate how she takes notes when you speak. It makes you feel like you're walking on a tightrope, like you should watch your words or she'll call the guys with the huge butterfly nets to come get you. When she picks up that pen, you think you have to put in extra effort to sound sane.

"Sure."

"What kind of dreams are they?"

"The very bad kind."

"I see." She scribbles something on the paper in front of her. _Evasive, _you guess she's writing. _Won't talk about his feelings. Is hiding something. "_Nightmares?" she asks, eyes on you again.

"_Of course _nightmares." You don't mean to sound this annoyed, but you do. And it's not really your fault is it, would you be sitting in her fucking office if you were having pink dreams of fluffy clouds and bunnies?

"Would you like to tell me what they're about?" She peers at you through her glasses and speaks like she's afraid you'll bite.

"Not really."

You don't exactly blame her.

* * *

**June.**

She drums her fingers on the desk, and you think _this is it_, you've finally managed to piss her off. It has been two months of sessions already, and not a word about the nightmares. She has been patient enough.

"Why the hell are you here then, Ciel?" she asks, almost shouting. You are pretty sure therapists aren't supposed to get mad at patients, but it's not like you ever thought she was professional. Young, fresh out of college, you can guess this is her first _real_ job. Nervous, unconfident, scared shitless, of the teachers, the students, the parents. No, she's not professional at all. But she's all you can afford, really.

"Tell me, _why are you here_?" she asks again, getting up from her chair, walking to the window and staring outside. You guess she's trying to cool her temper. You smile a little, but she doesn't see.

Really, though… Why ARE you here? You don't know. It's not like you expect to get help. Not from her, not from anyone. You shrug. "I'm here because my parents are tired of waking up every night," you reply dully, and feel guilty the moment you hear the words coming out of your mouth. _Wow, Ciel. Dramatic much?_

She's looking at you now with renewed interest. "No…" you murmur looking away from her, shifting your attention towards your hands. You're ashamed of the unnecessarily angsty reply you gave. It was… unlike you. "That was unfair."

"What do you mean?"

"They're worried. That's why they wanted me to get counseling."

"Why are they worried?" She knows perfectly well why your parents are upset; she's talked to both of them. She just wants to see how you perceive the whole thing.

"Wouldn't you be? If your kid screamed himself hoarse every night and started seizing in his sleep? I know I would."

She nods and makes a move to grab your file. You shoot her a glance, and it must have been more intense (or maybe more desperate) than you intended, because her hand stops in midair and she drops her head and smiles, sighing. She doesn't get the file, just crosses her arms upon her chest and leans against the window, observing you silently for a few moments.

"You know I've spoken to your parents, right? Before our sessions started." You nod. "They told me they can't wake you up sometimes and when they do, you get violent."

_Ouch._

"Yeah. That. I know. It's not like I control it." Your tone is defensive, with a tinge of anger and guilt. Sometimes you get really violent. Really, really violent. "That's why I agreed to come here. They don't deserve this. Especially Madison." You punched her once. Right in the eye. You saw it the next day at breakfast, all red and terrible, and remembered nothing. You even asked who did that, you even _shouted_ at her after she lied about tripping down the stairs, the most cliché excuse she could think of. She never told you, but eventually you put it together.

"Your mother," the unprofessional therapist says, almost like she's correcting you. You nod again, thinking that even though Madison has been around for more than ten years, it always feels funny when they call her your mother. "I'm not her real son," you explain. "And she's been through enough already because of me." _She doesn't need to get punched too._

"You mean your illness three years ago?"

"Yes." You reply. "I don't want to talk about it," you add hastily, and hope she won't ask why. She doesn't.

"You want to talk about the nightmares, then?" she asks instead, in a soft, careful voice. It doesn't bother you too much, this time. Her eyes seem kind and concerned. You guess she's not that bad after all.

"No," you shake your head. "Not yet." You hope she'll appreciate the miniscule recoil. You're giving her a small way in.

"Are they getting worse?" She asks with eyebrows knit, voice lower.

"Yes."

* * *

**July.**

"I don't exactly remember afterwards. It's all a blur when I wake up."

She nods solemnly and picks up her pen. You shoot her a deathglare.

"Put. That. Down."

"Ciel." She sighs, irritated, obeying your order though.

"Evelyn." You say her name, mocking her exasperation. "You can always write all your psychoanalyzing stuff when I'm out that door."

She's Evelyn now. No doctor, no surnames. Evelyn. Three months of therapy and all formality barriers have been breached. Three months of therapy and her office has become your playground. It's funny, really, how easily she put her guns down and surrendered control.

"What _do_ you remember?"

"The fear, mostly. That's what sticks. I'm scared out of my mind when I wake up. That's why I can't stop screaming, I guess." You're blind when you wake up. You are not human. You are reduced to lungs and vocal chords, to a mindless shriek that you can hear but can't stop.

"And?" Evelyn's eyes are fixed firmly on you, because she knows there is more. Because you were careless enough to tell her, a week ago, that there's also pain that comes with it. "You told me it hurts, too."

"I wonder why I ever tell you anything, you always use it against me," you smirk at the defensive stuttering response you know is coming.

"I-I, I do not! Ciel, it's my job to-"

You laugh.

"Relax, Evelyn. Yes, it hurts. While I'm dreaming, something happens, and it hurts like-"

_Being torn apart._

"-a bitch."

* * *

**August.**

You can know exactly what she'll say by the look on her face.

"You don't look so well."

You laugh –fake, and bitter and upset- and play with a few loose strands of hair falling across your eyes. It's not news. Everyone around you has become a broken record. The same thing, just different words. And Evelyn is being too polite about it. "Yeah, I look like shit, I know." Normally she'd argue _that's not what I meant, don't take it like that, _but she doesn't. You _do_ look like shit.

"You haven't been sleeping?"

"Not for a few days, no."

"How many?"

"Five? Six? Something like that."

You know by now that when Evelyn just hums instead of answering, it's because things are bad. You know that when she doesn't even try to get to her beloved pen and paper, they're even worse. "It's not like I can't sleep, I fall asleep often during the day but it's for seconds. Like my brain won't allow sleep, like..." you trail off. _Like it's afraid. Like it's trying to protect itself. To shield me from the fear that brings me to the edge of my reason._

"Do you-" she hesitates, rubs her forehead, but doesn't continue.

"Do I _what_?" you snap at her, like a spoilt brat. You don't even feel bad.

"Would you consider taking medication?"

You look at her with eyes hard and icy. She flinches, like you've attacked her with your gaze. "Would I consider taking _pills_? No, Evelyn, thank you very much, I won't take pills. I'm not fucking _crazy_."

"Ciel, you are not improving and medication is the only way to deal with-"

"You know what, FUCK YOU, Evelyn. This is your fault, because you're worthless. You have done nothing to help!"

In the back of your brain, you know this isn't true, you never expected her to be of use, you never thought she'd save you from the nightmares that are slowly eating away at your sanity, or cure the insomnia that's breaking you down. But you don't care. You need someone to blame. You need someone to crucify for this.

"Fuck you," you spit out as you get up and march to the door, not even noticing as she cries out your name, slamming the door behind you on your way out.

* * *

**September.**

You have curled in your usual chair like a cat, and Evelyn is looking at you with eyes wide and worried. Everyone has been looking at you the same way. Hell, when you look in the mirror, you don't recognize the corpse that's staring back at you. Ciel now is a pale, sunken face, with dead eyes and dark circles, Ciel is not a person anymore. You fought it, for as long as you could, but you give up now. It's over.

Your voice is rough, and not yours.

"Wanna hear something funny?" you croak, opening your eyes a fraction, they are heavy and so, so tired. Evelyn nods, _yes tell me, speak to show you're still breathing, tell me, please._ Poor Evelyn. She's grown to like you, and you can't understand why. She doesn't like seeing you like that. Or maybe she's just scared of having a dead thing talk to her.

You smile, closing your eyes again. You drop your head back. "The worst part isn't the fear or the pain. No. Not at all."

Your consciousness slips away for a second, and now you're falling, falling, falling…

"CIEL!"

Your eyes snap open and you see a close up of Evelyn's panicked eyes, feel her hands gripping your face tightly, her breath coming out panting and uneven. "You fell asleep, baby," she whispers and is that a tear in her eyes? If you weren't this scattered, you'd make fun of the tears and that ridiculous petname. _Baby, _for fuck's sake. But you don't think you are lucid enough to form a good line right now, and if you can't mock someone efficiently, you'd better not do it at all.

You were talking about something. You can't remember what. It doesn't matter. You want to sleep. You want everything to be quiet so you can sleep.

"Tell me what the worst part is, Ciel." She almost pleads.

Oh. That's what you were talking about. Well, that's actually worth sharing. You blink a couple of times, hoping it might bring you some clarity, take a few deep breaths and smile. You can't help but smile. It's so ridiculous, what you're about to say.

"In those dreams…"

_Where I'm being torn to shreds and pierced and burnt and screaming_

"I'm always waiting for someone."

_Someone to come get me, someone to answer _

"I don't know him."

_crows and cakes and candles and butterflies_

"I wait for him."

_Because he said_

"But he never comes."

_We will meet in the human world_

"He never comes."

_And I believed him._

And then, you're suddenly laughing. You're laughing so hard your ribs are hurting and the room is spinning. You're laughing so hard there are tears in your eyes and a lump in your throat. Evelyn is fucking _scared _and calling your name and that only makes you laugh harder, and harder and harder, and you grab her by the shoulders and laugh, laugh into her ears, laugh into her face, laugh until you run out of breath.

"He never comes!" you laugh, but it comes out more like a strangled scream.

"_Isn't that the funniest thing ever?_"

* * *

**October.**

You knock. For the first time.

"Yes?" You don't open the door yet. You stay there, for a while, your hand on the doorknob and think about how her voice has become so familiar. You've missed it, and her, for the past weeks. After making a fool of yourself laughing and screaming at her, you just couldn't face her. Not that she'd think any less of you after that. It's a pride thing. It's you.

You, the person you used to be, he wouldn't come back. He'd never come back, not after such a pathetic, embarrassing display of desperation.

But you haven't been yourself lately.

"Come in," she repeats, and to this you push the door open and peep inside. The smile that greets you is surprised, but glad. You'd smile too, but you seem to have forgotten how.

"Hi, Ciel." She gets up, and you know she wants to hug you because she's unprofessional and young and emotional everything a therapist shouldn't be. But she's your only hope.

"Evelyn," you mutter in that foreign voice that you despise, "I think I need those pills you were talking about."

The smile dies on her lips, but she nods, because she understands.

* * *

**November.**

It feels strange, being able to close your eyes without fear.

You yawn and stretch and resist the urge to put your feet up on her desk. Evelyn can't stop smiling. Evelyn is one big moron, but you're grateful.

"Any nightmares?" she asks, like she has done for the past five sessions.

"Not one," you answer.

"Any dreams, then? Good ones?" She looks hopeful. You hate having to ruin it for her. You shake your head. "Nope. Doesn't matter." It really doesn't. Every night, you fall into darkness, no sound, no light, nobody and nothing. Sleep now is like a black hole. But you don't mind one bit. Anything as long as it's not nightmares and insomnia and midnight screaming.

"When was the last time you had a pleasant dream?"

You make a face. "I said, it doesn't matter. I don't care that I don't dream."

"Just answer the damn question, Ciel. _Jesus_." You are almost back to your old self, the one she met and the one she surely missed during those months of sleepless catatonia. Not quite the person you were, but on your way there. It feels like reeling from a lethal virus. You feel weak, but not dead anymore.

"One that I remember, _months_ ago."

"What was it about?"

You snort. It was absolutely ridiculous. "Um… It was stupid, Evelyn. Fucking Hawaii, or something."

"Care to elaborate?" Evelyn presses, maybe wishing a little that you were still as compliant as you were in the dark days. "_Please_?" She adds, grimacing at the word. It makes you smile. You've been smiling a lot lately.

"I don't remember much ok? There was water, a sea or, or a lake. And sand. And skies and suns and fucking-" you swallow down a laugh, "-fucking _butterflies_." You didn't remember the butterflies before. They just popped in your mind right now. Maybe you even made them up. But no, you distinctly remember him saying…

_Him. _Who is _he_?

"Pleasant things," you finish. But there's a small voice in the back of your brain whispering _everything unpleasant, however unpleasant, everything that-_

"Sounds nice," she comments with a small grin, and you think what she means is, _sounds pretty gay._

"It was. The butterflies were black, in my defense."

"How wonderfully macabre of you," Evelyn sneers.

"Why?"

"They say that when a person dies a black butterfly carries their soul away. A myth, or something. Didn't you know?"

"No." You smile. She's grabbed your attention somehow. She should feel privileged, you've never been more interested in what she says. "So, they like…take souls?"

"I guess." She's reading your file again. You'd tell her to stop, but you just want her to keep on speaking.

"Like demons."

_Demons. They take souls. _

Evelyn lifts her eyes from your file and frowns. "What?" she asks, a little bewildered, and only then do you realize that what you said was…weird. Not particularly something a rational person would say. Psychopath material, maybe. And you don't really know where it came from.

"Nothing."

She nods, and goes back to her beloved file. Good riddance, you think.

"Ciel?" she asks after a few minutes, which you spent staring at the ceiling and counting its cracks. "Hm?" Three long cracks, five tiny, jagged ones.

"How many pills do you take every night?"

Your stomach twists a little, but it doesn't show on your face.

"Three." You take five.

"Ciel! I said, take two! This is strong stuff!"

You dismiss her frustrated reaction with a wave of the hand.

"Aye aye, Mrs. Therapist. Sure thing."

* * *

**December. **

Your hands move on their own.

Evelyn's cries are muffled and distant. Evelyn's cries don't matter. Nothing matters.

You bring her bookcase down; it comes crashing to the floor. She hides her face with both hands. Is she sobbing? You don't _care_.

You send her desk lamp flying across the room, and it crashes on the opposite wall. On the fucking blood splattered wall. You run to it and tear the fingerpaintings away. Rip them apart.

Her lips move. She must be screaming your name. _Ciel, stop! _she must be shouting. You don't care. It doesn't matter.

Then, you see your file. That hateful stack of papers, left on her desk, mocking you. Red, and large, and paperback, filled with wrong assumptions and wrong conclusions, filled with pointless words and stupid observations because in the end, nothing, it was all for nothing, nothing, _nothing_.

Suddenly it's in your hands and then it's not there anymore, and pieces of paper are floating all around you, raining down from the ceiling, slicing the air as they plummet, and then Evelyn has her arms around you and is whispering in your ear words that don't mean _shit _like _what's wrong calm down breathe calm down tell me what happened _and even though you can fight her off, even though you can really fucking _hurt_ her in the process, you've suddenly lost all will to raise hell, because it's not her fault really is it, it's not your fault, it's no-one's fault.

"Ciel, please, tell me what's wrong!" she shouts and hugs you tightly, like a mother would, like she wants to protect you from some impending catastrophe, even though she knows the thing that's killing you is inside your head.

"Again," you whisper, voice strangled and strained "It started again. They're back"

You never realize you're crying.

"Shhh…" Evelyn says and holds you, pets your head, kisses your forehead. "Shhhh…." And you hate the sound of it, but you don't do anything to stop her, because you're tired, you're tired of this, you're tired and worn out and useless, and it is so much worse now because you had a few days of quiet, you had what you wanted for some while and you thought everything was fine but that _thing_ last night, that dream… They were always bad, but not so terrible, never so terrible.

"I can't go on like this, Evelyn, I can't I can't, do something, Evelyn, please, do something."

You never hear those words escape your lips.

You never see Evelyn crying.

* * *

**Evelyn Mock.**

Evelyn Mock buries her face in her small hands the moment the door shuts behind the boy. She is trembling. Her office is ruined. She feels ruined as well.

For a few moments, there is absolute silence around her. But she knows what will come next.

"He is breaking, isn't he?"

The man materializes out of thin air as usual. His voice is deep and it sends shivers down her spine. She feels him grabbing hold of her wrists and forcing her hands away from her face. His touch is cold and cruel.

She opens her eyes.

He is pale and beautiful and everything an angel should be.

"He is broken," Evelyn mutters, and the man wipes the tears that run down her face with the pads of his thumbs. There is no compassion in his gaze. He licks his fingers. He kisses her.

"You knew the pills were going to do that to him?" Evelyn asks, the salty taste of her own tears on her tongue. "Give him peace for a few days, then take it away from him? Make him go mad, like this?" The man with the white hair and the silver eyes smiles. It doesn't look as evil as it should. He is heavenly.

"Of course I did," he replies simply, guiltlessly, and even though Evelyn expected it, no, she _knew_, it still hurts; it still makes her insides churn. She wants to say something to hurt him back, but she knows that nothing will.

"I think he might kill himself," she whispers, frightened, and a sob rises in her throat as more tears spill from her eyes.

The white haired man tilts her head up with a long, perfect finger.

"That's what we want, isn't it?"

She starts crying, and he kisses her forehead.

**TBC.**

**

* * *

**

**A/N: **You guys asked for a second chapter, so I wrote a second chapter. Because I'm easy like that. Well, I hope you liked it. No Sebastian in this one, but for a reason. Don't hate me. He'll be back. There will be a Chapter 3! See how easy I am?

Thank you to everyone who reviewed, **Funky Bracelet Chick, Jadedfox2, Evilissima, Hitomi-chanchan**, **Duchess and Sister **(this story is for you, anyways) and to those of you who added this story to their Favorites. You rock. I hope you guys weren't disappointed by the new chapter.

Oh! I also want to thank my gorgeous beta **Chun**, for…well, being gorgeous. And awesome. And patient. She's been dealing with me for a looong loooong time. HAI, CHUN!


	3. People Are Strange

**Disclaimer:** I do not own Kuroshitsuji.

**A/N: **DU. This is for you. Published in a hurry and not proofread because you are an idiot. The rest of you, ignore the above and read on. Thanks. *kiss*

* * *

**THE BLACK BUTTERFLY**

**People Are Strange.**

**John- December 2****nd****.**

Your father comes to pick you up from Evelyn's because it's raining, even though you didn't ask him to. He pulls up in front of you and you get in the car, shivering and rubbing your hands together, your grey hoody doing nothing to shield your from the piercing cold and the rain that seems to be a constant factor of December days. No snow yet, but you don't doubt it'll come soon.

"Hey," you greet him, and he gives you a small smile, short and worried, because John is always worried these days, lines around his mouth and his eyes. "John, come on," you say, taking off your hood and running fingers through your damp hair. He taps his fingers on the wheel, nodding solemnly.

John is a quiet man, with gray temples and thick glasses. He is tall and dark, his arms and hands are enormous, his hair is messy and brown. When he smiles, it's with his entire face. He is a journalist and you grew up reading his articles that Madison left lying around the house. You didn't understand shit about them back then, the words he used were bizarre and very grown-up, they formed inside you this unfathomable admiration for his mind that was able to conjure strange words and create magic sentences. For years, growing up, you believed that John was a sage, some kind of modern-day Aristotle, and you stared at him with wide eyes and a gaping mouth. It's not that you don't admire him now. He is still the same mind, the same man. But now he feels more like a father, less like an idol. Madison still cuts off his articles from the local newspaper and leaves them on the table for you to read. Now you understand what he writes more, now you get how truly great it is. Sometimes –when what you're reading makes your brain go _whoa- _you lift your head from your bowl of cereal and tell him "Dad, that's awesome," and then John smiles his usual smile, the one with his whole face, but says nothing.

"How was the session?" he asks, stopping at a red light, and turning his attention towards you, eyes glinting through his glasses. You can't lie to him. "Didn't help much." Your head hurts. It's more out of stress and frustration more than anything else. You haven't slept much, the nightmares returning and everything, but you have gone much longer without sleep.

John is still looking at you inquisitively like he _knows_, like he wants you to admit you just trashed Evelyn's office and probably proved that you really are a lunatic.

Then the light is green again, and he turns away. He turns on the radio, seeing that you're not in a talking mood, and you hear Tom Waits trying to fill the space of silence between you with his rough voice and an Invitation to the Blues.

You stare outside the window, focusing at nothing and no-one, wondering if Evelyn will talk to them, call them to her office to tell them you're worse than they ever thought, suggest that maybe you should get locked up someplace with a straightjacket to keep you from tearing up people's red fingerpaintings and kicking their bookcases down.

"I am not crazy, Dad." The words are out your mouth before you know it. You grimace, knowing he heard and you can't take them back. Rain keeps pattering against the glass windows, and John is quiet as usual. Tom Waits sings about Cagney and Hayworth and you feel really, really miserable and drained.

"I know."

John's large hand finds the back of your head and weighs you down, like a reminder of consistency, like a breakwater, and you close your eyes, marveling at how your parents have willingly taken up the job of keeping such a broken thing intact, despairing at how it doesn't help one single bit.

* * *

_He has many forms and many faces, sometimes he's people you know and love, sometimes he's the mirrored image of yourself, sometimes he's perfect strangers. Sometime's he's __**him,**__ the one you're calling for, and when he does that, it's a dirty move and your brain splinters with the effort of fighting the illusion._

_He always smiles, always touches you -a caress or a mockery, you don't know and don't care- and he always asks to be let in._

_He whispers in your ear __**let me in. **__He tears you to pieces and hisses __**let me in. **__He holds your face between his hands, he licks the blood and the tears away, digs nails and teeth in your body and carves it into your skin, __**let me in.**_

_You don't.

* * *

_

**Madison-December 7****th****.**

"Ciel."

You don't hear it at first. Or perhaps you do, but you think it's just a voice in your head. There have been many voices in your head lately.

"Hey, kid."

You open your eyes and roll them slowly to the door. Madison is leaning against the doorframe, hair tied up in a lousy bun, in her pajamas and holding a cup of herbal tea, the kind you hate. If you were yourself, you would tell her to dump that shit and have a fucking coke, but…you are not. You blink, and even blinking feels like a labor.

"Still not sleeping?" she asks and takes a sip. She sounds casual, but you know she's been counting the hours of sleep you get every night. So far the meter's been stuck to zero. It has been six days since the nightmares returned and you have decided that not sleeping at all is the way to go. The world feels fragmented and blurred. Madison is just a shadow among shadows.

You think you answer her, _yes, _but it is possible you just made a sound halfway between a sigh and a grunt. You drop your head back on the pillow. You hear Madison leaving her cup on your desk and hope she won't stain the papers you've left scattered there. She sits on the bed beside you, and you feel her weight shifting the mattress. You don't open your eyes just yet.

"It's your birthday soon," she murmurs quietly and you nod. "In six days," she continues and you want to tell her that it's no big deal, it's not like you ever really celebrated your actual birthday. They adopted you in April, and that has been your birthday ever since you were four years old. December 14th doesn't hold any real significance to you, or them. It's just the day your birth mother killed herself and abandoned you. You are aware that you are being overly dramatic. It's the nightmares that are doing this to you. These days, the cup isn't just half-empty. It's fucking poisoned.

Sometimes you wonder, however, if suicide runs in your blood. If that is the reason you can't get pills and guns and knives out of your head. The reason you keep thinking of ways to end this.

"It's time for Madison's mushy story of the year," she says, removing you violently from your suicidal thoughts, and you open your eyes just a crack, to see her bringing her knees to her chest and hugging them. You raise an eyebrow, trying to look interested, but she misses it, and it was probably failed anyways.

She looks young. She is young. She is about 15 years younger than John. She was his student when he was lecturing in some university, he was married and she was…Madison. You don't know all the details about what happened back then, how they ended up together, but you know that it was messy and bloody and terrible, and that Madison isn't ashamed, because she loves him too much.

"D' you know why we decided to adopt you?" she asks, and this has been a question that has been teasing your brain for many, many years. You never asked them, though. You are too proud for that.

"Cos I'm so damn good looking?" you manage to croak.

"I wanted a baby, a really small one, because I couldn't have one. I wanted it to be months old, weeks, days."

They adopted you when you were four. You were not the kid they were aiming for then.

"But when we went to the orphanage, John left me alone to wander around and I saw this kid. One of the women there were helping him get dressed but he didn't like the color of his sweater. He was so bossy about it, so fucking _strict_ and serious that she ended up getting him another sweater, the color he wanted."

You smile. That sounds like you.

"I was, well, amused. She was so overpowered. I asked her what his name was and she said that it was Ciel, but everyone called him _little Lord_ because he acted like some blue-blood, like the Queen's son, or something."

You interrupt her, snorting. "So you adopted me because I was, what, bitchy?"

"Shut up," Madison says and hits you lightly on the knee. She never had any issues swearing around you. John gets despaired some times. "So while I was talking to that woman, the bitchy kid didn't run away to play with his friends –she told me he didn't like the other kids, he was too good for them. He just stayed there, and looked up at me with blue eyes too big for his face, stern and mature and I freaked out. Because he looked like that kid from The Prophecy. And then, I knew."

"That you should call a pastor for an exorcism? Wow, Madison, this story is really doing wonders for my psyche."

"I knew that kid was mine. That creepy little regal brat was _mine_."

You don't know why, but suddenly there's a weight on your chest. It dawns on you -maybe for the first time, isn't that strange?- that Madison loves you. And if you die, if you kill yourself, it will hurt her. You don't want to hurt her.

"And you know what, I don't care if you see me as your sister or your friend or John's wife. I don't care. You are my kid. You are my kid."

Is she crying? Her voice is strained. You have never seen her cry.

"So. Whatever you're thinking of doing."

Your eyes fly open and you are stunned, what is she talking about? How can she know?

"Don't. You. Fucking. Dare."

You swallow, and Madison is gripping your knee tight, like she's trying to convey a message. How can she know, you wonder again, because you have no doubt she was talking about your plans of blades and bullets and countless pills.

You don't speak, you don't think you can. Madison gets up slowly, gets her tea and kisses your forehead before leaving.

_Don't. You. Fucking. Dare. _

You feel like screaming.

Because Madison has the spidey sense, and you are her kid, and you don't know what to do anymore.

* * *

_This time he's a white haired angel of blinding light._

_This time he touches you and it fills you with warmth and fear and something close to awe._

**_Let me in, _**_the white haired angel speaks into your mind, lips unmoving, and he's beautiful, frighteningly so, too beautiful to measure in human terms. _

_He wants you to let him in._

_But you don't.

* * *

_

**Liz-December 13****th****.**

You can't tell anyone, but you can tell Liz.

It's your birthday tomorrow. That is the least she can give you. She can listen. She can understand. She has to understand, no-one else will.

Liz left the back door unlocked for you and you walk to her room carefully, as carefully as you can, because you don't control much of your actions these days. You hear her dad snoring, asleep in front of the TV, some silly jingle needling your brain. The hallway spins in a frenzy merry-go-round, pictures of an eight-year-old Liz with golden curls on the walls dancing all around you and you can see them come alive and smile wickedly, you can hear them chanting that old nursery rhyme she liked, like a curse caught on tape.

_Ashes, ashes, we all fall down._

_Ashes, ashes, we all fall down._

Liz appears out of nowhere. She grabs you by the wrist and drags you in her room. You lose your step and sort of fall into her, taller and heavier, but she holds you up, because Liz is strong like you, she is hard and cruel like you, like you used to be, the only one that can keep you on your feet. She pins your back to her closed door, hands firm and sure on your shoulders, and you laugh desperately, throwing your head back, eyes closed. Her hands flutter on your face, exploratory, fingers tracing the black shadows under your eyes, the thin membrane of your eyelids, the curve of your grin that's left forgotten and empty on your lips.

"Lizzie?" you ask in that strange, strangled voice. "It's my birthday tomorrow." You lower your head to look at her, yes, this is the real Liz clutching at your shoulders, the one you know, the one that snipped her curls off and dyed her hair black just to tick her mother off. She feels safe, territory already mapped and learnt, but your eyes are like a kaleidoscope, chopping her up and pasting her back together again like a Dali painting.

You are very well aware that you have lost your mind.

"I know, moron. I got you a gift." Liz's voice used to be high-pitched and annoying when she was still that freaky golden kid, drowning in bows and ruffles, giggling at everyone and everything like a reflex. You hated her back then. You don't know what happened, what changed. Now her voice is low and rough, like it's fighting to get out of her throat, and you love it. Her smile is crooked and mischievous, and you love that too.

"Lizzie?"

"Yes. Ciel."

"I think I'm gonna kill myself tomorrow."

God, that sounds funny.

You laugh again, because you're gonna kill yourself tomorrow and it's hilarious. You are gonna kill yourself tomorrow to kill the nightmares and kill him too because he never ever _ever_ comes, you're gonna kill John and Madison too because you're gonna kill yourself tomorrow and it's ok, it's fine, you haven't been alive for months anyways.

"Yeah?" Liz asks, calm and contemplative, not freaking out, not panicking, and she slides her hands down your shoulders, pulling you off the door's flat surface. She takes off your coat and drops it on the floor.

"How are you planning to do it?" It sounds like pure interest, clear of emotion and passion, cold, clinical. You are grateful beyond measure, and that's ironic, isn't it? You can't be sure. It must be. Most people would want others to care, wouldn't they? They'd want to be stopped, wouldn't they?

You don't.

"Thought…pills."

She grabs the hem of your shirt and pulls it over your head. Your hair gets all messed up and she uses her fingers to comb it. She keeps your faces close, but your eyes are unfocused. They can't see her.

"Uh-uh. And why don't you just slit your wrists in the bathroom?"

You let out a stupid laughter, like some brainless stoner and think that you shouldn't find that question amusing, but you do. "Too much drama," you answer her, and she nods like she totally gets you. Like all this makes perfect sense to her.

She unbuckles your belt and slides it away, so many clothes on the floor, when did it all come off? You want to make a sleazy comment, but the words feel distant, all words feel distant lately.

"How about jumping off the roof then?" Liz uses her own bare feet to remove your shoes, and somehow she manages to do it. She nuzzles your neck, winds her arms around you, you feel your knees weaken and your eyes drifting closed. She is pulling you with her, walking you both someplace, but you can't focus long enough to figure out where. You just follow her lead, mechanically.

"Or will that ruin your pretty face?"

Again, that drunken laughter.

"Nothing good happens on my birthday," you mumble, words slurred and slow, your head drooping on her shoulder, some part of you trying to keep you awake, screaming that you mustn't sleep, _Ciel, you mustn't sleep, there are monsters behind your eyelids, don't …_

"You met me on your birthday," she whispers into your chest and pushes you gently back on her bed, and you go, you fall willingly, giving up, giving in, forgetting why you should be fighting, you're going to die tomorrow anyway.

"Exactly."

You think this will make her laugh and bite back, but everything turns black before you can be sure.

_Ashes._

_Ashes._

_We all fall._

_Down.

* * *

_

_**Let me in.**_

_The pleading eyes are crimson and bright, they are the ones that you can only remember in the deepest sleep, caught in-between nightmares. He covers you with his shadow, touches you, holds you, soft like butterflies, careful like you're made of glass, and he pieces you back together, a bloody, severed mess in his arms._

_You close your eyes and hear him __**–him- **__murmur into your hair. __**It's me, I'm here. **__And you want to believe it. __**Let me in, Ciel.**_

_**I can keep you safe, I can end this, you just have to let me in.**_

_You feel the warmth of his breath on your lips as he leans forward, and this might be hell, this __**is**__ hell, it doesn't matter. __**Please. **__You strain upwards and catch his lips between yours, you invade his mouth recklessly and with a building panic, a fever. __**Let me in. **__A searing, frantic kiss, stolen and fake in every way, you bite his lips and bite his tongue, playfully at first, then harder, harder, __**harder**__, harder until he bleeds and moans and pulls away, a thin thread of blood and saliva connecting your mouths._

_You grin at him and sneer __**you think I don't know my own toys? **_

_He doesn't exactly like you mocking him.

* * *

_

**Ciel-December 14****th****.**

Of course you wake up screaming.

Of course you scratch the hell out of Liz's arms when she tries to calm you down, shut you up.

Of course her father ends up banging frantically at her door, of course she shouts something at him, something stupid to cover things up, of course he doesn't believe her and threatens to break the door down, of course.

Of course she ends up climbing on top of you, using her full weight to keep you still, of course she repeats your name in your ear like that will bring you back or something, remind you of who you are, remind you that you are Ciel, intact and breathing, not a pile of scattered limbs.

When you finally calm down, of course you can't even bring yourself to touch her or reassure her, of course you keep staring at her with wide, dead eyes, like she's not even there, like you can't hear her demanding _Ciel, talk to me. Ciel. Fucking say something, Ciel. _You don't speak, because if you did, you'd tell her _I don't need you. You can't help. _There's only one person that can, and you don't even know who that is. Of course you don't.

Of course you leave her stunned and scared, staring out her window.

Of course you find yourself running down some nameless street, the city a blur of traffic lights and puddles, of course it has started snowing, of course you're barefoot and shirtless, of course you slip and hurt yourself, not sure where, everywhere, it hurts fucking everywhere, your head is a ticking clock, and you are going to explode, one, two, three and you are going up in flames.

When you get to your house, you stain the carpet and the stairs with blood, of course you do, and Madison won't only have a dead kid in the morning but also a filthy house. When you get to the kitchen and open the cabinet, of course you find the sleeping pills right there, waiting for you, proud and triumphant, of course the bottle is full, it seems like the entire fucking universe wants this, it's a force of nature, a higher power, God's will.

After you empty the bottle on the counter, of course no-one hears it shattering on the white tiles, no one comes to force your trembling hand to open and drop the pills –even though it would be so easy, you are so weak-, of course there's no mercy, no way out. After swallowing the first handful, of course you don't get sick, of course it all goes down.

Of course, you think, heaving over the kitchen sink, of course.

When you lift your eyes from the counter, 30 pills already in your system, when you look out the window, dizzy and fogged and half-dead already, of course you see him there.

Of course.

* * *

**Sebastian-December 14****th****.**

You are furious.

You are hyperventilating.

Your body is moving so fast it's supernatural.

You run out the kitchen leaving the white pills on the counter, stumble down the stairs, fall down, get back up, almost kick your front door open so you won't have to deal with stupid stuff like keys or doorknobs. You find yourself out in the middle of the street, just as you were before, barefoot and shirtless, jeans riding low, shivering and panting, knees and elbows bleeding, stomach turning, head burning. You are out on the street like that because of him, and now you don't see him anywhere.

Where _is_ he?

"Oh _fuck_," you mutter and you can suddenly feel the pills, feel a weight dragging you down, down, down, and then you're on your knees, in the middle of the road and snow is falling and landing on your bare shoulders and he's not here.

"Fuck," you repeat under your breath, feeling the cold asphalt biting into your palms as the entire world is reeling sideways. In some abstract, far-off way you are certain you're gonna die here, in the cold, out in the street, on your birthday, not the way you planned it. That last part pisses you off most of all.

You cough and try to force yourself to throw up, push the things out of you, but nothing happens, _of course, _there's just acid in your mouth and fire in your throat and you are mad, you are so mad at him.

"Fucking," you growl, shudder and cough again, your mouth full of thick, bitter saliva, like old blood. You try to spit it out, but the taste persists. You take in deep, whizzing breaths that leave your mouth dry. You're fighting this. You're gripping onto nothing but sheer anger, pure fucking rage, because he's toying with you, he was _here_, you didn't hallucinate or make him up. He _was_ here and you know it, you don't know who or what he is but you can sense him, you can smell him, you can because you _own_ him, and how fucking dare he taunt you like that, lure you, mock you like that.

Who is he, where is he, he should be here, you've asked for him, you've called, doesn't he know his fucking place?

"Stupid fucking _demon_!"

You don't know what it means. You have absolutely no clue. But you scream it nonetheless.

The cry seems to take everything out of you, those last morsels of strength, and you suddenly find yourself vacant, no air in your lungs or thoughts in your head, you are stripped down and bare, loose and jointless. You fall backwards, and it feels long, slow and deadly, like the freefall Liz suggested as a way out just a few hours ago.

_Ashes, ashes, we all fall down._

But you don't.

Ah.

It is everything at once, sharp and intense like a blow to the head or an electric shock. Tea and pudding and dust, the aftertaste of power and twisted loyalty -you take a deep breath, take it all in, as your back collides with something solid and stable, as arms encircle you. You try to find something to say but you can't, it catches in your throat and all you can do is gape down the empty, white street, wide-eyed and confused and still.

You want to say his name but you don't remember it.

A gloved hand travels up your face and settles over your eyes and that's when you spring back to life, some kind of fiery _NO _bubbling inside you, because you might be clueless and poisoned and freezing to death, but the only thing you won't accept is this hand over your eyes.

You fight it making a low sound at the back of your throat, and he doesn't force the blindfold on you. He lets you grab his fingers and push them away, he lets you wriggle around and look at him.

It's him.

He's here.

And he's smiling.

And then, you don't know, you're too lost to care, you just reach for his face, and he lets you. You reach for his mouth and he lets you, you bite his smile away and he lets you. Just as he should.

You feel his breath on your face, warm and real, his lips on yours, his eyes a familiar crimson and a well kept secret at the same time. You want to ask who he is and what _this_ is, but you just kiss him, hard, angry, and breathe _fucking demon _against his mouth once more. _Fucking demon, _and it sounds like a term of endearment, like you're calling him _precious _or _love _or _mine_. He chuckles low -fucking bastard, he's amused- and it vibrates through his lips to yours.

He covers your eyes again, but this time you allow it, because you're too tired to fight and because you are oddly satisfied with your current situation.

"It's alright now, Young Master, I am here," you hear him murmur against your temple as your eyelids give in to the tug of sleep, and you don't know if it's the thirty sleeping pills in your belly, the numbing cold or him, just him that's doing this. You don't exactly care. "It's alright, you can sleep now."

The last thing you want to do before drifting away is grab hold of his velvety coat, dig your fingers in so deep that he'll just have to stay, he'll be _forced_ to stay. And you want to open your mouth to tell him he's in no position of telling you what you can or can't do. But your voice is lost someplace and all words have lost their meaning, so you just settle for gripping his clothes, hard and demanding like a needy child.

You let your head fall back, heavy against his shoulder and your entire body sags, hangs like a puppet from his arms and then you let out a shaky breath and let go.

There's darkness and silence and unexpected warmth.

And there's his voice.

"Happy Birthday, My Lord."

And then there's nothing.

* * *

**A/N: **Hai, peoples. So, what did you think of chapter three? Nightmares! New characters! Parents! Lizzie's weird and black-haired! Ciel is…apparently emo? And Sebby's finally here!

Hope you liked it. I promise the story will lighten up from now on. A little. A tiny bit. Because I'm not good at producing happy things and I guess I should seek professional help.

I wanna thank those of you that reviewed: **larsa7, Shirogane-san, Hitomi-chanchan, Hyper Kid007, Evan and jadedfox2, **cookies for everyone, you are too amazing! Also thank you to the lovely people that added TBB (I'm too cool to write the entire title) to their favorites or their alert list.

Finally, thanks for reading. Leave a comment if you feel like it. No pressure, I just live off reviews. And you'd be like…helping me survive. But no pressure.


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